Where Did You Go for Your Bra, Mrs. Robinson?

June 19, 2013

I Was Misinformed

By JOYCE WADLER

The guy who is now the official boyfriend told me he’d like to take me shopping for lingerie last weekend. I declined, which was a probably a mistake, because the next thing you know, driving back home to Tennessee, he is sending me a picture of the fishing rod he has just bought for me and speaking enthusiastically about trout fishing. I have never in my life fished and I do not relish either slamming a fish’s head against a rock or releasing it after tearing up its mouth, which I figure is also no great pleasure for the fish.

There is nothing wrong with my lingerie, by the way. I just prefer shopping for it alone. I don’t mind spending a lot of money on it, either. This winter I passed the $100 bra mark, which I swore I would never do. It reminded me of what they say about killing a man. The first time you do it you’re nervous and you have to psych yourself up, but after that it’s easy.

Still, the boyfriend shopping invitation got me thinking that maybe I should get something special for the next time he visits — that stuff you see in Victoria’s Secret ads on the women with masses of hair and partly open mouths whose expressions suggest they exist in a parallel universe where all they do is get ready for sex.

“Hey, Victoria, want to go to a movie?”

“I can’t, I’m getting ready for sex. Whaddya think, should I pose in the door with my mouth partly open or crawl into the room on my hands and knees with my mouth partly open? I don’t want to seem too obvious.”

“You could get into bed in something silky and pretend to be absorbed in a book.”

“What’s a book?”

But there was a problem here. What, as a 65-year-old woman, could I get that would be hot and not farcical? My template for hot middle-aged sexuality, imprinted on my brain when I was in college, is Anne Bancroft in "The Graduate," but the truth is she was only 36 when that movie came out. I'm not sure her leopard-print bra is my look.

But I do want something a little wild, so I trot off to an extravagant, high-end store in my neighborhood. Their window displays are so outrageous, I usually stop and laugh. The last thing I remember was sheer black panties with a wide hot pink ribbon that tied at the back, which suggested one would have to back into the room to make the appropriate impact, then use a hand mirror to see how it had gone over.

I walk in and find I’m feeling a little self-conscious and don’t know exactly what to say.

“I have a new boyfriend,” I said.

But this, in a lingerie shop, turns out to be the very best thing you can say — the equivalent of a trader walking into a Porsche showroom and saying he had just got his bonus. The saleswoman, who has a jolly, accepting attitude that suggests if I were dating a horse she would find something suitable (fishnet jodhpurs from the look of some of the items in this store) is off and running.

Would I like a beautiful black bra and panties, teamed up with a lace garter belt? A black lace jumpsuit? Bustier? There are some beautiful retro slips of the sort I’ve noticed 60ish English actresses favor for sex scenes but I have a few of those. I am fascinated by $1,000 corset dress made up of wide ribbons, stretch lace and conspicuous garters, primarily because people are actually buying them — it’s not like you could wear the thing again, say to a bat mitzvah.

But there is one big problem, which I have already encountered at other lingerie stores: A lot of the prettiest bras and camisoles and bustiers are too small or designed for a premenopausal body, as if women of a certain age no longer have a fantasy life.

I spend so much time in fantasy land I’ve thought of building a house there and I’m always up for perking things up with a few surprises.

A few years ago the guy I was seeing told me he was reserving a hotel bridal suite for a weekend. I made a quick visit to a thrift shop and, as a gag, walked into the sitting room in satin high heels and a floor-length wedding veil. A floor-length veil, ladies, is a boudoir item I cannot recommend highly enough. There is no body it does not fit and you will have an excellent time, once you both stop laughing.

I continue the lingerie search and go uptown to a department store. Once again a lot of the prettiest bras and panties do not go up to my size. I take a dozen items into the fitting room and a dozen out. They include lace underwear, which I realize only when I put it on has a small round key-hole in the back. It is not a look I want at 65. Neither is a bustier that comes to my waist, the equivalent of a yellow traffic light pointing to your belly. There may be postmenopausal women my age who are entirely fat free here, but in my experience, they require medical treatment.

I go home and Google "sexy lingerie," then "sexy lingerie older women." I have two things to say about this: 1. Whatever problems we have in America, we are rich in our abundance of crotchless underwear and 2. if you are 70 and regret never having been a porn star, it is not too late to realize your dream.

I also realize I don’t want to buy anything I can’t first try on. I return back to my neighborhood shop.

“I’ve decided to broaden my horizons,” I say.

The saleswoman takes me back to the racks, so to speak, and I notice some items I missed the first time: A latex bra and panties. (“But wouldn’t you sweat?” I ask. ) Feathered handcuffs. (No.) Black leather pasties with tiny yellow ribbons, for $103. (No.) A pair of lace panties cut so high a 19-year-old ballerina wouldn’t risk them. (“Too cheeky?” the saleswoman asks.)

I do like the saleswoman’s attitude, though. There may be bra manufacturers who have decided older women have no interest in playful lingerie, but she is not one of them. She insists I try a piece of costume jewelry that is a rope of beads at the hips, another at the neck, and is connected by a vertical strip of beads. It’s a brilliant maneuver for selling nightgowns.

I know when I am beat. I buy a very pretty, if traditional, Chantelle bra and lace underwear in summer sherbet colors. Then inspiration strikes. I realize there is something that fits any woman’s body perfectly.

“You have any press-on tattoos?” I ask.

They do not, but I find one elsewhere. Where it is going I am not saying. Let’s just say I am going to be saving a lot of trout.